


you light the skies up above me

by opticalprism



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Canon Related, Euro 2016, FIFA World Cup 2014, Fanmix, Football | Soccer, Futbal Mini-Bang, German Football, German National Team, Jealousy, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 15:05:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3614367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opticalprism/pseuds/opticalprism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>attempting to maintain, develop, and sustain a long-distance relationship in the world of top-flight football.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p><br/><b>August 2013</b><br/>“Hey,” he half-whispers. His curious face fills your screen and you imagine him leaning towards his laptop, shoving his face right in front of the camera as he tilts his laptop screen back, trying to bridge those 596 kilometers between Dortmund and Munich. A smile rises to your lips, unbidden.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	you light the skies up above me

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the GQ.de article (Gute Freunde kann niemand trennen) that gave Mario and Marco 6 personalized ways to maintain their long-distance friendship. [This Take That's live performance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qCjFtIYBy_A) of Rule the World gave the fic its title and inspired a lot of its style and flow. Where possible, I followed actual events and timelines.
> 
> Thanks to the futbal-minibang mods for organizing this (or I'd probably never have written this fic). Thank you so much for making awesome graphics and a perfect fanmix for this, ascience! You rock.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.

 

  
[8tracks mix by ascience [12 songs]](http://8tracks.com/ascience/the-skies-above-me)  
[ ](http://8tracks.com/ascience/the-skies-above-me)

 

**August 2013**  
“Hey,” he half-whispers. His curious face fills your screen and you imagine him leaning towards his laptop, shoving his face right in front of the camera as he tilts his laptop screen back, trying to bridge those 596 kilometers between Dortmund and Munich. A smile rises to your lips, unbidden.

“Hey,” you whisper right back, hoping that you look good on his screen. It might be stupid, but you dressed up for this. One of his old white shirts, soft from repeated use and one of his old black shorts, stretched out because your waist is _normal_ but Marco has the waist of a female supermodel. You hope he’ll notice - he likes it when you wear his clothes. You took extra care when shaving earlier and you even plucked your eyebrows.

It's your first Skype call with him since you moved to Munich.

“My clothes?” he asks, and you smile in assent. “You look good.”

“So do you,” you say, watching him lean back. Marco _does_ look good - his newly-dyed golden-brown hair is perfectly coiffed and his pale bare torso shows off his abs. Your eyes stray towards his biceps. It should be illegal to have a boyfriend this hot. Lucky you.

“How’s Munich?”

“I’m the master of the house.” You can’t keep the smugness off your face and you probably resemble a Cheshire cat but you can’t be bothered. You miss your parents, of course, but it feels _good_ to be liberated from curfews. (You totally stayed out at David's until 4am the second night you got to Munich just because you could.)

“Brat,” he says, fondly. “Eating anything other than takeout?”

“I’ve been cooking.” You conveniently leave out the fact that Ann-Kathrin’s been the one who’s made anything more substantial than toast, omelettes, and smoothies, God bless her.

“Ann-Kathrin says you almost left sausages out on the pantry to rot.”

“Lies.”

Marco leans back and waves his iPhone in front of the screen. “She messaged me and I quote, ‘I discovered this foolishness at 11.30pm last Wednesday.’ She even sent me a photo of your abandoned sausages swimming in melted ice. Shall I text her now? ‘Hi Ann-Kathrin, Mario says you’re a liar.’” His face breaks into a maniacal grin as he begins to type.

“What - no - fuck - do you want me to suffer?” you yelp, terrified. Marco keeps typing, the bastard. “Ok, fine, ugh, I admit it, I forgot the sausages and before you rub it in, yes I almost burnt pancakes the week before. Happy?”

Marco smirks like the asshole he not-so-secretly is and you’re torn between wanting to kick him and wanting to kiss him. It’s a constant conflict of interest.

“Delighted. Thanks for the info about the pancakes, by the way. She didn’t tell me about that one.” You splutter. “Remind me to send her a bouquet of flowers for putting up with you,” continues Marco. “Some handmade Belgian chocolates too, I think.” You groan. Pretend relationship or not, you’ll never hear the end of it if Marco’s gifts are better than yours.

Having said that, you’re thankful for the millionth time that Ann-Kathrin agreed to help you out. When you swore her to secrecy before revealing your little secret (so I’m actually gay, I need a girlfriend to stop people asking questions and you’re the only friend I trust who’s also female - well yes, I do have a boyfriend and I think you can guess who he is), you were certain she would let you down gently. Instead, she stared at you for a moment before giggling and declaring that a lot of planning was needed, of course, but this was epic and made of win and she wasn’t missing it for the world. With her on your arm, no one’ll look suspiciously at your friendship with any male. With _you_ on her arm, it’ll be so much easier for her to meet people in the modeling industry because as everyone knows, after a certain level of competency, it’s who you know, not what you know. (Bonus: both of you become better actors.)

You have to admit that sitting down with Ann-Kathrin to plot out the background and structure of your fictional romance was a lot more fun than you thought it’d be. You flipped through celebrity gossip magazines with her and practiced kissing her on the cheek, holding her hands, and slipping your arms around her waist. It took the better part of two weeks’ practice before both of you could kiss on the lips without laughing in each other’s faces and making fun of each other's kissy faces.

You planned hangouts with each other (just as you used to) but now, you also planned things such as When to Casually Hold Hands and When to Exchange Deep Romantic Gazes.

Marco wasn't too keen on you having a pretend girlfriend for the public, declaring that no one should worry about that for a few years at least. However, when you told him that you were thinking of asking Ann-Kathrin (who he was already friends with), he took to it like a duck to water. The only problem (you're the only one who thinks it a problem - the other two see it as more proof that this plan is 10000% awesome) is that, sometime during extra Planning Sessions, both of them discovered a mutual love for teasing you. That day marked the birth of their private Whatsapp chat (original name: Smarter Than Mario). On days like today, however, you wish that both of them weren’t _this_ close. All this gossiping behind your back - traitors, both of them. They’d be exchanging friendship bracelets if Marco was a girl - you’re sure about it.

“She has her eye on a blue Miu Miu handbag,” continues Traitor #1. “It’ll look good with her new black dress - be sure to get it for her as a ‘thank you’ present for teaching you basic survival skills, won’t you? And an island trip.”

Suddenly, clear as day, you remember Ann-Kathrin sending you a photo of a thousand-Euro black leather jacket and saying that it would make a nice present for Marco. You had nodded, then, but you hadn’t thought anything of it until now.

“Are you both on a mission to bankrupt me?” you demand. Marco cackles like the high-pitched demented hyena he secretly is.

“You’re earning more than twice my salary now. You can afford to support both of us.”

Ah yes. Because neither of them earns an above-average salary. It should be against the law for both of them to gang up against you, you think, pouting. “Gossiping traitors, both of you.”

Marco smirks, making you want to grab him around the waist and poke his ribs until he begs for mercy. Your laptop screen reminds you of the impossibility. “Can we change the topic?” you plead.

If you were still in Dortmund, Marco would probably harp on this for the next 24 hours. But you’re in Munich and you’re going to Frankfurt for an away match while Marco will stay in Dortmund for a home match against Eintracht Braunschweig. What with matches, travel times, and all that, you probably won’t get to Skype him until next week at the earliest.

“Since you’re leaving tomorrow...”

You’re relieved to know that both of your thoughts are still in sync. That your on-pitch ‘blind understanding’ still exists off-pitch.

You spend the next few hours talking about everything and anything - from the strangeness of being able to go just about anywhere in Munich using just the S-Bahn or the U-Bahn to the new hair gel Marco’s been experimenting with to the latest movies. Both of you fall asleep without cutting the call. When you wake up the next morning at the godawful time of 6am to catch the team bus (away trips suck), you stare at your laptop screen and memorize anew the way Marco’s normally-immaculate hair sticks out in every direction in a golden-brown mess and the way his blond eyelashes curl upwards.

Reluctantly, you shut your laptop screen, grab your luggage, and hurry downstairs, praying that you won’t burn the pancakes this time.

**November 2013**

You wish Guardiola didn’t throw you to the wolves (if you started the match, there’d be less laser-like focus on you) but he did, no matter how unintentionally. You’re coming on as a second-half substitute against the team you left under contentious circumstances, in front of a crowd that hates you. (It might be cowardly to warm up in the tunnel instead of the sidelines, but you rationalize it by telling yourself that you really don't want beer cups thrown at your head.) Minutes later, you latch on to a pass and break the deadlock. You put your hands up immediately and refuse to celebrate but your new teammates pay no heed as they jump around you in excitement. The whistles intensify to fever-pitch. But what breaks you inside (in the part of you that you locked away before stepping onto this pitch in red for the first time) is the betrayed look on your ex-teammates’ faces. You saw Roman’s expression right before you blasted the ball past him.

You’re thankful that Marco is half-hidden by a clutch of celebrating Bayern players. You don’t think you could meet his eyes.

The match ends and you walk over to him but he refuses to speak.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper as you hug him. You let your fingers trail through his hair and down his shoulders in a subtle caress as you break the hug but he remains unresponsive. You turn away, exchange a few quick words with other players and make your escape.

A few interviews (that you’d rather not think about) and a quick shower later, you walk the walk of shame from the away dressing room to the home dressing room, enduring judgmental glances from people clad in Dortmund’s black-and-yellow and curious glances from others. You need to know whether he’s angry at you for scoring or whether he was just angry at the lopsided scoreline that doesn’t flatter Dortmund. Maybe he's angry about something else? You hate that you don’t know.

Once you're outside the dressing room, you pause - is it even wise to go in? There’s transferring under good circumstances and there’s transferring under hostile circumstances and you know you’re in a bed of thorns of your own making.

You’re about to chicken out (and then you’ll have a double walk of shame - who cares, right?) but Mats sees you and yells “Mario’s here!” Before you can panic, Marco’s popped out through the door like a jack-in-the-box and is in front of you. There isn’t a trace of the irritation and world-weariness that was on his face when you hugged him on the pitch after the match. You're wearing non-club clothing now so if it weren’t for your Bayern bag, you’d almost think that nothing has changed. Marco puts his hands on your shoulders, pulls you into his arms, and then leans back a little as if to take in the sight of you.

“Come in,” he says. You demur but he doesn’t let you shy away, dragging you by your wrist into the locker room. A general shout goes up and you’re enveloped by more of your ex-teammates. You’re relieved that no one seems to bear you any grudge. (Well, Kevin doesn’t exactly give you the warmest of welcomes but you can’t blame him - you know he grew up an ultra and is still one. You suppose you should be thankful he didn’t boo or whistle you the way the ultras did.)

Marco shows you around, tells you who sits where now, and whispers that Mats still tries to read a book a week and still fails.

You’re relieved that he doesn’t hate you but you’re also confronted, not for the first time, with the overwhelming feeling that you should never have left Dortmund. You see the way your ex-teammates look up to Marco, see their relationships with him deepening and you wonder how long it will be before that thin tenuous thread that connects both of you snaps.

You bite the inside of your cheek to suppress the memory of Marco crying in your bedroom the night you told him your final decision. That despite everything he said, you had chosen to leave; your words implying that Dortmund (club, family, friends, _Marco_ ) paled in comparison to Bayern. That you had made up your mind and you knew what he would think but he couldn’t change it.

(And now, you’re struggling for first team football at Bayern while his place in Dortmund’s starting lineup is ironclad.)

By now, you’ve made a complete circuit of the locker room. You sit down by your old locker, next to Marco’s. It is Pierre’s, now. Another reminder that your place (in club football, at least), is no longer by Marco’s side.

Marco throws his balled-up jersey at you. “Where’s yours?” he demands. You’re thankful that you had enough presence of mind (and faith) to bring yours along. You give it to him, watching his face carefully. His smile doesn’t waver but you notice that it no longer reaches his eyes.

“Go out with us?”

You shake your head. You wish you could but you’re still a newbie at Bayern, still unsure of your place, still fighting for first-team football and you need to be whiter than white with Pep.

“Team bus,” is all you say. “I’ll visit soon, promise.”

That jersey sustains you as a talisman until Christmas, when you finally have enough time to visit Dortmund. Even then, you have to do a ton of fancy footwork to get yourself a few hours alone with Marco without anyone other than your immediate families knowing.

“Got it washed and threw it in the storeroom,” Marco says, when you ask him where your Bayern jersey is. It hurts, but at least he didn’t trash it. You rummage through your overnight bag for his national team jersey and change into it. He likes it when you wear his jersey. (You briefly considered bringing one of his Dortmund jerseys as well but decided that the potential for conflict was too great and you weren't going to risk spoiling Christmas.)

He alternates between making you beg and spoiling you rotten for the next few hours (you're thankful that Marco doesn't live with his family anymore because you can get fairly loud in bed) and when it’s finally time for you to leave and rejoin your family, you emerge from his apartment, sore as fuck but oh-so-happy. The earlier hurt barely registers anymore.

**January 2014**

The winter break gives you time to think, time to rewatch videos of your matches while privately reviewing your career. It’s a problem. You start becoming insecure.

If you’d think rationally about it for a hot minute, you’d realize that your anxiety over being reduced to a substitute role after years of guaranteed first-team football is making you doubt yourself, your choices, and your abilities. And that this anxiety is spilling into your personal life and your relationships with others.

Perhaps the ability to distance your personal life from your professional life might come to you more easily if you weren’t in a relationship with another top-flight footballer.

Perhaps you could learn to control your jealousy if men’s football isn't a strange chimera of homoeroticism (all-male teams, intense emotions, physical sport, physical celebrations) and homophobia (no out top-flight male footballers, in contrast to the multiple out top-flight female footballers). Bromance is awesome, the in-thing. Bros and bro-codes and bro-everything is awesome as long as it remains strictly platonic.

It’s a wonder that this is the first time you’re jealous of Marco's friendships. But then again, this is the first time that you’ve sort of burned bridges with a large part of your past and struck out for an uncertain future.

It’s all spilling over and running together and it's messy. So messy.

When you watch Marco celebrating with someone else (even if it’s an old teammate that you’ve known for years like Mats or Nuri), jealousy curls hot and bitter in your throat. You see BVB videos, interviews, Instagrams, tweets, whatever, in a new, jealous light and you somehow start picking fights with Marco. Questioning his actions. He questions yours in turn. Your mutual knowledge of each other, once a comfort, is now a weapon.

Both of you apologize, but the quarrels inevitably start up within a few days.

Maybe we should end this, is on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t say it. Those 9 blissful months together weren’t perfect - both of you still quarreled, but it was a lot easier when you lived just minutes away from each other and saw each other 5 times a week for hours at a time. Now - now, if you quarrel, you worry that you’ll never have the opportunity to work it out.

Maybe it’ll be better once the league restarts and you’re too busy trying to win a starting position in Bayern’s first eleven.

**February 2014**

It doesn’t get better.

“So tell me, who am I replacing you with, exactly?” he demands. “You’ve only accused me of being too affectionate with just about everyone I regularly see who’s about our age. And it’s not like you aren’t affectionate with your own teammates and friends.”

“I’m trying to fit in,” you snap.

“I’m just doing what I’ve always done,” he retorts.

You’re both lashing out now but it only reaches a breaking point when he hits your one weak point. A weak point that you haven’t talked to anyone about except Ann-Kathrin (because most of your close friends are involved with football one way or another and they’d have minimal sympathy).

“Ever thought that you made a mistake in leaving Dortmund?”

“You promised never to bring it up!” Your skin prickles and stings.

You’re both silent for a minute or so, glaring at your respective laptop cameras.

“You know what?” he snaps. “If you can’t trust me, we might as well end this. We’re not in the same club anymore, anyway. It won’t be awkward.”

You feel your heart break into a million pieces as his voice becomes ice-cold. He talks about how André and Toni can shield both of you from each other at national team call-ups. Tears well up in your eyes. You're still wondering whether you messed up your professional life by transferring to Bayern and now it seems like you've definitely messed up your personal life. It’s a long time before you manage to speak.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sick of hearing that.”

Your screen goes blank. Marco’s cut the call.

**March 2014**

You don’t tell anyone. You immerse yourself in training. Your match performance actually improves (goodness knows how). You lock yourself in your room at the usual time on the usual days and you’re quite convinced that you’ve managed to fool everyone.

That works until the seventh of March, when Ann-Kathrin corners you in the living room, insists that they go to your bedroom to Have A Private Talk and begins by glaring at you.

“Call him.”

“We talked yesterday as usual - we’ll talk again when he gets back from Wolfsburg.” You try to feign confusion but her glare hardens.

“Let’s see,” she says, counting off on her fingers. “One, both of you have been quarreling for the past few months - don’t look at me like that - raised voices carry. Two, Marco’s stopped messaging me regularly over the past few weeks. Three, you’ve stopped looking like a lovesick teenager every few days. I wonder why?”

Damn it, nothing gets past her. “Are you sure you haven’t missed your true calling as a detective?”

“Stop avoiding the question. I was hoping you’d see some sense after a few days but apparently you can't. Call him.”

“You should do a detective photoshoot,” you say, because you’re the champion of running away from your problems. (You think back to the time you decided to warm up in the tunnel at Westfalenstadion. Being pelted was a legitimate concern but your main fear, you're ashamed to admit, is that you were afraid of facing Dortmund's fans’ boos and jeers. A far cry from the days when they shouted your name in adoration.)

She takes out her phone. “If you don’t call him, I will,” she says and that gets you scrambling for your laptop because Ann-Kathrin doesn’t issue empty threats - oh no - she follows through with them. You’re reminded of Marco’s quick, decisive ways. You wonder whether it is coincidental that your pretend girlfriend and actual boyfriend resemble each other so much in terms of personality. (It probably isn’t. Something defined psychological phenomenon something. You have a vague memory of hearing the national team’s psychologist mention it during some team talk or other.)

Thankfully, he hasn’t blocked you on Skype. When you call, he picks up but doesn’t speak. You wish he’d say something - anything - for you to respond to. But he remains quiet, his face an impassive mask.

“Ann-Kathrin told me to call you, actually,” you admit at last.

“I figured as much.” There’s still acid in his voice.

“I should’ve told you when I first started feeling jealous,” you say, finally. “Not after I’d half made up my mind that you were going to replace me.”

“Did you honestly think I was gonna replace you?”

“No, it’s just, I thought - thought we’d grow apart or something. Like. You’d start replacing me without realizing. And I'd watch you training and celebrating and going out with the others and wish it was me.”

“You should’ve thought about that before moving away.”

You run your fingers through your hair. Lately, it seems like you should never have left Dortmund. And given the way your transfer went, the way the news broke… it’s not like you can transfer back at will. Unlike Shinji or Nuri, both of whom _might_ be able to transfer back some time in the future if Manchester United or Real Madrid don't work out.

“I should’ve.” You’re a big fan of not living in the past, but sometimes, sometimes…

Silence, again.

“I know you’re sick of hearing this but I’m sorry, I really am.”

Silence.

“Next time, can we just agree to talk about this shit before quarreling?” he says, finally. “Honesty policy and all that shit.”

The tightness in your throat recedes somewhat and you start to hope that maybe, just maybe, you can salvage this. “Yeah.”

When Marco starts outlining what an ‘honesty policy’ means, you have to interrupt because last you checked, neither you nor Marco read a lot of psych-related stuff. Marco’s lips twist into a wry smile.

“My Christmas present this year from Mats after I admitted I missed you. An armful of books on the theme of How Not To Suck At Long-Distance Relationships or something like that.”

You’re having a serious conversation here, but laughter bubbles up within you and spills over. Thankfully, Marco also sees the funny side.

“Yeah, so. It’s actually pretty useful, flowery language aside. Actually, I didn’t start reading it until last week when Mats found out just how much we’d been quarreling. He called me an idiot and threatened to invade my apartment and read them out loud to me if I didn’t start reading them soon. I think he even threatened to give me homework.”

You make him give you the list of books that Mats gifted him. If he’s suffering through flowery language, the least you can do is suffer along with him. Bonding activities for indirect couple therapy - something like that.

\-----

“All okay, then?” asks Ann-Kathrin, when you finally emerge from your room, emotionally exhausted.

“Not really, but we’ll get there.” You hug her. “Thanks. You’re the best, you know?”

She ruffles your hair. It’s rather older-sister-like, you think.

“I don’t like it when my friends quarrel.”

\-----

Somehow, despite the fact that Bayern is still involved in three competitions (and is hellbent on repeating the 2013 treble), you get two days off in a row. Actually, it’s probably _because_ Bayern is involved in three competitions. Training burnout and all that. You call Marco just to check that he isn’t flying halfway across the continent for some away Champions League match or filming some ridiculous (but adorable) commercial. Luck’s on your side (for once) - he has nothing beyond the usual training routine.

It’s slightly ridiculous - an impulse 12-hour round trip (blasting through 596km each way in 6 hours or less) for a 10 hour-visit, 7 of which were spent asleep and 1 of which was spent stuffing your face - but it’s worth it.

“Seven hours of oxytocin,” says Marco, when you wake up the next day to his sharp elbow poking your rumbling stomach. “I’ll take it.”

“What?”

Marco rolls his eyes dramatically and adopts a lecturing tone reminiscent of stuffy people. “Oxytocin. It is a hormone that is naturally produced during physically affectionate activities such as hugging or celebrating. It strengthens interpersonal bonds. Couples with higher levels of oxytocin have stronger relationships. Do you even read?”

You wrinkle your nose. “Could you sound any less boring?”

He laughs. “I’m older and wiser. Never forget that.”

You throw a pillow at his head and he instantly retaliates.

Seconds later, engaged in a full-out no-holds-barred wrestling match aided and abetted by pillows, blankets, and the odd article of clothing, you wonder whether this counts as an oxytocin-producing, couple-relationship-strengthening activity.

You strongly suspect that the answer is yes.

**April 2014**  
From the title race’s point of view, the Bayern-Dortmund game is meaningless since Bayern’s already won the title. However, Dortmund’s hell-bent on securing second place so all in all, Dortmund winning 3-0 is about the best possible outcome now that you have divided loyalties. You’re half afraid that Marco will resent you for having won your third Bundesliga title when he has yet to win one, but he doesn’t seem to be particularly bothered by anything when he hops up to you after the match.

“Good goal.”

Marco grins shamelessly. “Manuel's gonna be sooooo pissed. He conceded three at home. Three!”

Okay, yeah, practice tomorrow won’t be fun. But you'll deal with that tomorrow.

“Can’t stay either, I’m afraid,” he says, when you ask him. “But hey. Summer.”

You grin. Your first World Cup. With Marco. “I’ll see you before camp though, right?” you ask, anxiously.

He nods. “Drive up after the season ends. There’re a few new restaurants in town. Oh, and practice your ping-pong.”

You grimace. Marco’s a speed demon at ping-pong.

**May 2014**  
The moment you see him at training camp, you yell and launch yourself at him, luggage be damned. Everyone laughs but you can’t be bothered. Two straight months (you’re not going home until you’ve hoisted the Jules Rimet trophy into the Brazilian night) with him.

You don’t know what to do with yourself now that you can see Marco everyday, play football with Marco everyday, just - everything everyday. Your confusion manifests itself in you sticking to him like a limpet. Thomas teases both of you - “die Unzertrennlichen,” he says. The inseparables. (Another meaning: the lovebirds.) Somehow, DFB’s media chief gets wind of it and uses that term to refer to both of you. Normally, your paranoia would act up but right now, you can’t be bothered. You’re best friends, you miss each other, no one’s gonna look any further. National team time with Marco is precious and you’re determined to use every minute of it.

**June 2014**  
And then your dream (because both your summer 2014 dreams were one and the same) is shattered.

You’ll never forgive the Armenian who tackled Marco.

He tells you to go to the pre-Brazil party and you declare him insane. Why the fuck would you celebrate going to Brazil without him?

“I want you to be happy,” he says.

You snort. What about his happiness? You’ll never be perfectly happy this summer, even if you win the World Cup. His absence will taint your joy. You hate injuries. You hate the fragility of the human body.

“They used to say I was too fragile to be a footballer,” he whispers, his throat raw and dry from grief and the stress of barely holding himself together. “Maybe they were right.”

“Of course not, don’t be silly,” you say, wrapping your arms around him, careful not to disturb his injured leg. "You're always making those top footballers worldwide lists."

Should you talk to him to distract him? No, he says, he’s too tired. André and Toni visit and keep Marco company in companionable silence while you rush off to your room to shower and try (and fail) to process it all. When you get back, the three of them are splitting a giant bar of chocolate (courtesy of Bastian and Lukas). Finally, Philipp drops by to say that everything’s been arranged for Marco - his family will meet him at the airport and his non-footballer friends are planning a getaway for him.

Now that the logistics are settled, that’s the last both of you talk about it. Before leaving, André and Toni hug Marco and promise to win the World Cup for him via a series of increasingly outlandish lopsided score-lines that favour Germany. (Marco cracks a smiles at that - his first smile since the tackle.) You order food up. He picks at it. You help him walk on his crutches, help him dress up, and give him his pain medication after he showers. He finally lies down, his head resting on a pillow on your lap. You card your fingers through his hair. You wipe his intermittent tears and gather his snot-filled tissues to the side.

Fuck knows what time you fall asleep. The next thing you’re aware of is his ringtone, guitar solos blasting. You fell asleep sitting up - Marco's still lying on your lap, curled around three pillows. You reach for his phone.

“Mario. Open the door.”

Shit. You’re not in your room. But wait - why is Philipp calling you on Marco’s phone? Well, at least your room is next to his. You slide out, trying not to disturb Marco, and open the door. Philipp is standing right there. He holds up your DFB-approved Hugo Boss suit by its hanger.

Crap. Crapcrapcrap.

“Your phone’s dead. Bastian's packed your things - he convinced the housekeeper to let him into your room. Shower and change - you’ve got 15 minutes to get to the bus. You can eat on the plane.”

You nod jerkily. Crap - how could you have forgotten?

Philipp’s eye bags are really pronounced. You’re not the only one who slept badly.

He folds you into his arms. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, somehow managing to convey sorrow and understanding of the entire situation (because of course he knows that Marco isn't just your best friend) in those two words. He presses your suit into your hands and is gone.

You push any ruminations to the back of your mind. When you're on the plane, you'll have endless hours alone (devoid of a seat-mate laughing and taking celebratory selfies with you - that selfie you took on the plane with him to celebrate his birthday seemed so long ago now, as though from another lifetime) to ruminate.

The table light flicks on. Marco’s awake and he’s looking at you with anger and misery and heartbreak. You force yourself to look away and head to the bathroom. If you go to him now, you’ll never get on that bus.

Shower and suit take 5 minutes and then you’re back out, forced to face the inevitable. You have no idea how to say goodbye.

Marco reaches for you and you go, burying yourself in his arms one last time and whispering incoherent nonsense before you try to salvage what remains of both your dreams.

“Message me once you land,” he says, and you nod, trying to pretend that this is just a usual parting.

Your wallet is a present from him but you can’t leave without something extra of his. On impulse, you grab one of his jerseys and roll it into a tight ball, concealing its name and number.

“See you soon,” you say, and sprint for the bus.

**July 2014**  
“If I score, it’ll be dedicated to you,” you told him, the night before Germany’s first game when he spammed everyone on the team with good-luck messages and a million emojis.

“I want a goal every game.”

You don’t _quite_ manage that, but you do manage to score the goal that wins Germany the World Cup.

In the first explosion of dizzy euphoria, you admit to completely forgetting about him. You forget everything except oh my god, we’ve done it, we’ve won, finally, shit I wasn't even born when Germany last won and now I've helped us to the fourth star wait did André really pass to me did I really score that goal is this real life am I dreaming? But once the initial madness, the initial pile-ups, and the initial celebrations have subsided, once a semi-rational thought crosses your mind, the despair comes.

Some might say you’re feeling bittersweet, but bittersweet is too mild, too toothless a word for the utter delight and complete grief that swiftly shoots through you and claims you.

You head for the substitute’s bench and pull out Marco's jersey.

It’s no substitute for him in person, of course, but holding his jersey soothes that small broken-hearted part of you and allows you to participate without guilt in the celebrations that have broken out everywhere. (You'd been wondering all afternoon whether you should celebrate with his jersey if you won; you didn't want to accidentally hurt him by reminding him of his absence but on the other hand, he's a part of the team - his goals helped Germany qualify for the World Cup and he _should_ be here.) Everyone’s glee is infectious and once again, you start celebrating, start laughing, start screaming. You hug and kiss Ann-Kathrin - none of this would've been possible without her support. She makes you pose for photos. You giggle. As Toni and Jérôme drag you away to do a lap of honour with everyone else, you suddenly remember that Miroslav promised to party like Basti does if Germany won today.

“We’re gonna have the best blackmail videos ever,” you yell at André.

When it’s finally your turn to hoist the World Cup trophy into the balmy Brazilian night, you’re screaming. Marco’s jersey is in your hand, pressed against the trophy and if you think hard enough, you can almost feel him there with you. Your ears crackle from the noise and you’re utterly convinced that everyone’s trying to permanently deafen you.

It’s beautiful.

**August 2014**  
Everyone vaguely connected with the world of football has been talking about Marco Reus’ release clause, or so it seems. You’re both under the same agency and their instructions are simple - don’t invite questions but if you are asked point-blank, give a sensible answer.

Point-blank questions come your way, of course, because by now, the whole world must have seen photos and videos of you with Marco’s jersey. There've also been several interviews and countless write-ups

You give the diplomatic (and honest) answer - it’s Marco’s decision, but you’d be happy to be in the same club as him again.

By some unspoken agreement, neither of you bring his contract situation up. At first, it is stupid to do so - Marco is still recovering from _that_ injury. But then, as injury after injury happens and your heart breaks watching him collapse to the ground and beating it with his balled-up fists (it was all you could do not to explode on the pitch at the Scottish player who tackled Marco in that Euro qualifier - how dare you, do you know what he's been through, if you destroy his confidence I will yell at you until I'm hoarse and then yell some more, fuck you), transfers are the last thing on your mind.

You don’t know whether he thinks about transfers or not but he never brings it up. You pour your energies into being the best boyfriend possible without rubbing in the disparity between your current situations. (You healthy, Marco injured. Bayern on top of the table, Dortmund in mysterious freefall.) You let him vent to you. Let him rail at you about the unfairness of it all. Let him whisper his insecurities to you through the shield of a phone call.

**December 2014**  
“Have you been sending me anonymous fanmail?” Marco demands, waving a stack of white envelopes at his laptop’s camera.

You grin. You thought it would be a creative way to make him happy, but you also assumed that he’d be quicker on the uptake. (You started running out of fanmail ideas about 5 days ago. Then again, people normally don't send fanmail to their favourite footballers every single day for three weeks.) “Took you a while, didn’t it?”

“Should’ve figured it out when the letters and presents came directly to my apartment instead of going through our agents,” he admits.

“When did you finally realize?”

Marco sighs ruefully. “When you started quoting the Bieber songs we used to sing in the locker room.”

You grin at the memory. Both of you fully dressed, singing the chorus to _Baby_ while waiting for the call to go to the players' tunnel. Everyone was so horrified. Good times, good times.

Now that he's rumbled your anonymous fanmail plan, you start sending him selfies. You've always sent him suggestive ones but you gradually upgrade your selfies from suggestive to explicit.

“Attention whore,” he teases you.

You smirk. You’re not sorry. If his filthy texts back are anything to go by, you know that he approves. (You've had phonesex with Marco before, of course, but you've never dirty-texted with him this much.) Tired and languid from a day of intensive training, you stretch out on your bed, stick a pen into your mouth, take a selfie and send it to him. He sends you back a text-essay of just exactly what he wants to do to you the next time you stay over at his place. You giggle to yourself. Sometimes, you have amazing ideas.

**January 2015**  
The winter transfer window opens, ushering in a month of mad and increasingly groundless transfer speculation. You keep your head down and escape East to warmer climes. Marco goes to Florida. You remind him that without sunscreen, his pale skin will resemble that of a cooked lobster in half an hour. He tells you to fuck off but does pack a few extra bottles of waterproof high-SPF high-PA sunscreen.

You communicate sporadically. But suddenly, he starts texting you about the offers he’s been getting.

‘BVB.’

‘Madrid.’

‘Madrid + 2M’

‘MU, Chelsea.’

‘PSG?!?!’

‘Puma + BVB’

‘Liverpool’

‘Bayern’

The last one makes your heart skip a beat but you refrain from anything that might be constituted as expressing an opinion. Years ago, both of you decided to give this a go, both of you agreed that both your careers came first.

Two years ago, he refused to give you his opinion until you asked for it. Now, you’ll repay the favor.

**February 2015**

He calls to tell you his decision right after telling his family. You can’t say you’re surprised.

You look at him, his face radiant with contented joy, his body vibrating with excitement. The question seems almost redundant now, but… “Are you happy?”

“I am,” he says, a helpless smile breaking over his face. You smile, letting your expression match his.

A minute later, however, he sobers up.

“You’re not happy.” He’s always been able to divine your thoughts. Even your selfish ones.

“I am,” you insist. It’s true. “I’m happy that you’re happy.”

“You wish I transferred to Bayern.”

“Yes.” As you say this, you look at him unflinchingly. After that near breakup, you’d promised him full honesty about your (more than) niggling insecurities. (You don’t think you could lie about this, anyway.)

He looks at you for a long time. Even though you know he’s looking at his laptop’s camera, not at you, you feel his eyes bore into your soul, taking every selfish and mean thought you’ve ever had, and laying it bare.

“I thought about it,” he says, finally. “But I couldn’t go what you went through.”

“I know.” Deep down, you’ve always known that he would never transfer to Bayern. (He's Dortmund born and bred, you're just Dortmund-bred. He's the romantic one, you're the pragmatic one.) But the selfish (trophy-hungry money-chasing?) part of you wanted him to because - “I wish we had the same number of trophies.” You remember celebrating Dortmund’s wins in 2011 and 2012 over the phone with him. You wished that he was in Dortmund’s first team with you instead of at Ahlen and at Gladbach. And the only year you were in Dortmund together, Bayern swept all before them.

Silence, again.

“We still could.” And there is an unstated request there (come back to Dortmund, come back to me).

“You do know they hate me, right?”

“I could make another Facebook post.”

It’s a feeble attempt at recapturing what they had. But at this point, their professional lives and priorities have diverged so much that…

“It’s okay,” says Marco, softly.

“I’m sorry,” you say and fuck, when did a congratulatory call about Marco’s contract extension (he’ll officially sign it tomorrow) turn into a call about Marco comforting you about decisions you made or don’t want to make?

“It’s okay,” Marco repeats. “There’s always after.”

After. After their first careers (professional footballers) are over. After both of you don’t need to live lies (or half-truths).

“Are you sure?” You can’t (or won’t) transfer back to Dortmund, you know as much. But you have to ask.

“I don’t like it, but I’m sure.”

“I love you.” Both of you rarely say these words, preferring to express affection through other ways. But you need to reaffirm this, now.

“I know.”

His “I love you,” when it comes, is so soft that you have to strain to catch it.

**May 2015**  
Your lives continue to run on parallel tracks, both on and off the pitch. Marco in Borussia Dortmund and you in Bayern Munich. Marco with Puma and you with Adidas. Marco with Football Manager and you with Pro Evolution Soccer.

Once, when mindlessly browsing the internet, you find a .gif icon that says ‘Maths, we know drama.’ Tangents that only meet once. Asymptotes that get closer and closer but never can be together. Parallel lines that never meet.

You vow that even if your lives continue on parallel tracks, even if another tragedy takes away one of your places at the Euros or at the World Cup, you won’t give this relationship up. You can totally touch someone while running parallel to them.

When did you become this philosophical?

“Maths analogies? Taking after your father, I see,” says Ann-Kathrin, grinning. “And there I thought all you knew are the numbers from one to twenty-three.”

She snaps a photo of your outraged face and sends it to Marco, who promptly forwards it to you with a dozen mocking emojis.

Their Whatsapp chat (long since renamed to ‘Mario, Music, Clothes’) has just celebrated its 3rd anniversary. They send each other extravagant gifts to mark the occasion. You’re half convinced that they could take over the world if they wanted to. It’s scandalous, it really is.

**June 2015**

It’s been five years (2 years pre-Dortmund, 1 year Dortmund, and 2 years post-Dortmund). You never want it to end.

**Late 2015**  
Sometimes, you’re jolted out of bus-induced daydreams when you realize that if you stay together with Marco, something will happen (has to happen) after both of you retire. You shiver (is it fear or anticipation?) and refuse to think of the E-word, let alone the M-word.

You’re fairly certain that you could never ask him. You still haven’t forgiven yourself for leaving him, even if you were convinced that leaving Dortmund was the best thing for your career. For destroying the dream of the ‘dynamic duo,’ the ‘dream pair,’ the ones who would guide Dortmund to glory after glory. (He’ll win the Bundesliga with Dortmund, thus fulfilling his childhood dream, you’re certain. But you won’t be there.)

**May 2016**  
You’re both in the initial 30-man squad that heads to intensive training, of course, and both of you know that you’ll be in the final 23. But you refuse to relax until the first day of the Euros. Then, the tense ball of anxiety in your chest finally unravels as you rest secure in the knowledge that if Marco’s ankle gives way again (please God no) or someone clatters into him, studs up (you’ve never forgiven anyone who’s injured Marco), he won’t have to pull out from the squad. Bastian and Lukas are hell-bent on winning the Euros before they retire and they (along with just about everyone in the squad, even if only about 7 others know your actual relationship with Marco) know that you’re hell-bent on winning the Euros with (and for) Marco.

The whole team is abuzz with excitement. Jogi, ever the training martinet, declares that excess energy should be worked off. By the time evening rolls around, everyone is only too happy to pile onto the multiple couches in the lounge area to watch the opening match - France vs Czech Republic.

Your unholy love for saunas (thanks for telling the whole world about that one in a World Cup interview, Marco) means that you’re one of the last to arrive - and you look around. Finally, you spot Marco’s gelled hair.

You sit next to him and engage in a mini tug-of-war for part of the giant blanket that he’s cocooned himself in.

It’s only 7pm, but you can’t stop yawning.

“Tired?” he murmurs, teasingly.

“How are you still so energetic?” you mutter, injecting as much grouchiness into your voice as possible. Fucking shuttle runs.

He laughs and you know that you’ll never stop falling in love with the way his mouth forms a crooked smile with smile-lines extending from his mouth all the way up to the crinkles around his eyes.

“I’m special.”

“You eat like a pig and your waist is _still_ non-existent.” You’re determined to be grouchy.

You’re both sitting at the back of the room and your bodies are hidden under the giant blanket. The extra privacy allows both of you to throw a little caution to the wind. He knows what you’re indirectly asking for (cuddles) and ruffles your hair, slides his arm around your waist and pulls you in. Both of you hold hands for about half the match. During half-time, you complain about his bony shoulders and knees. He tickles you and you squirm with the effort of keeping quiet and remaining unobtrusive.

You really are exhausted and even the excitement of France scoring and then conceding a goal within the last 10 minutes of regular time isn’t enough to keep you awake. You fall asleep on Marco’s lap and when you wake up, you’re forced to endure jokes about how you looked like an oversized baby. Marco even let Thomas take close-up photos of your sleeping scrunched-up face, the _traitor._ You don't think Thomas could've found a more unflattering angle if he tried - you look like a giant moon-face. You swear that if the photo ever sees the public eye, you will find every single last one of Thomas’ horses and end them.

Minutes later, you find out that Thomas already sent backups to André, Toni, and Bastian. Before the team retires for the night, the photo has reached the team's Whatsapp group and you know that you'll never live this one down, fuck your life.

"You looked cute," says Marco that night, when you demand to know why he let Thomas near you.

"I'm 24. Twenty-four! I'm past the age of being cute. I'm handsome, not cute, dammit."

"You _are_ handsome," he reassures you. However, his eyes twinkle with mischief. "Let's just say you're both handsome and cute, hm?" He pinches your cheeks. You screech in his ear in retaliation because if he's going to call you cute, you are totally going to act like a teenager.

(You won’t admit it, but the embarrassment was worth falling asleep on Marco for.)

\-----

It’s the night before Germany’s first Euro 2016 match. You already know that both of you will be starting tomorrow and you’re half-breathless with adrenaline as you imagine the wind whipping through your hair and the ball flying goal-ward from your feet.

Marco’s next to you, fidgeting between texts. You reach out for him but he avoids your eyes.

“Nervous?”

He nods.

“You’ll be amazing,” you reassure him.

He shakes his head and stares fixedly at the ceiling. You don’t know what to say.

“I want -” he starts, and falls silent.

The room is tense, humming with some indiscernible energy.

Marco moves abruptly and suddenly, you’re facing each other and he’s staring at you with a strange, intense expression. You open your mouth to ask a question but he gets there first.

“Mario, will you marry me?”

You stare at him for what seems like forever. Everything comes rushing back - the feeling that you weren’t good enough for him since leaving Dortmund, leaving him, you don’t plan to retire for another decade at least, a ten-year-engagement makes no sense, Marco, what -

“I don’t understand -“ you begin, but he shushes you.

“I’ve decided. I want this, I promise.” You look away. Now that the topic is finally broached, you realize just how desperately you want this. But you don’t know what to say. You don’t want to say no but can you - can you say later?

“Don’t say later,” he says, softly. You will never stop being amazed at how he anticipates your thoughts. “Say yes.”

“You want an indefinite multi-year engagement?” you ask. You’re still trying to dodge the question. Later, later.

“Yes. Please,” and you can’t say no now, not when he’s asking so gently.

You look up and meet his eyes again and gasp because he’s looking at you with that ridiculous _tenderness_ \- the same way he looked at you when you first fell asleep on his shoulder in the team bus on the way back from a Germany friendly, 72 hours after you first met and the same way he looked at you on the pitch whenever you played together - all this before both of you even started a relationship. You remember Mats telling you to just ‘tell him already - he’s completely in love with you but he has this dumb idea that he’ll be corrupting you or whatever because you're 17 or something seriously just do it before both of you drive all of us stupid.’ You remember the soft wonder on his face when you kissed him for the first time. Your chest clenches and hurts with the memories of all the good times and the bad times and really, there’s only one thing you can do, only one thing you want to do.

“Yes,” you say. “I’ll marry you, Marco.” That familiar, beloved crooked smile blooms over his face, lighting it up. You’re reminded of the night he told you he would extend his contract at Dortmund. That same contentment, now magnified tenfold.

You watch, speechless, as he wordlessly takes your left hand and opens his left fist to reveal a platinum ring, which he slides over your third finger.

His ring fits perfectly. You’re not surprised.

\-----

By the you wake up the next morning, he’s long gone. But you slip into his room before breakfast (having already done the common-sense thing and hidden away his ring) because the question is burning you up.

“Why last night?”

“I knew you’d never ask. Even after we retired,” he says, calmly.

“How’d you know?” (He’s right.)

He smiles slightly and presses a quick kiss to your lips. “Do you think I don’t know you?” He could probably spell it out, but he chooses not to dig up that old hurt, chooses not to let your guilt fester.

There’ll be a longer conversation about this, but not now. After the Euros, perhaps, when you’re finally ready to face your years-long guilt, trampled down, compressed, and hidden away. Maybe not even then. Maybe in a few years time. Or maybe only after you’ve retired. But for now, the knowledge that Marco knows both the worst and the best parts of you yet still wants to marry you will keep you going.

\-----

When you pose for the team photo before Germany’s first match, you grab his hand before he can slip his arm around your shoulders as is the norm. It’s only the second time this happened - you remember him grabbing your hand during one of the first matches both of you played together, alight with excitement because after multiple injuries, he was finally, _finally_ living part of his dream - playing for the national team. Were both of you together already, then? You don’t remember.

And if anyone asks - hey - you’re best friends (still). And didn’t Franz Beckenbauer himself say that no one can separate best friends?

(You won’t be separated as lovers either. Bromances with other friends and teammates, distance, forced secrecy, nothing will separate both of you.) 

\-----

That night, with a win under your belt, you fall asleep in your room. You dream of (finally) lifting a trophy with Marco, of buying him both an engagement ring and a wedding ring, of planning practical jokes to play on your wedding guests (you can already hear Marco's fits of laughter). Heck - you dream of building a house on that piece of Dortmund land you bought right before Bayern came calling (it still lies there, fallow) and of living there with Marco, haters be damned.

When you wake up in the morning, you will carefully hide it in a pouch within your backpack’s inner pocket. But for now, as you dream, your fingers are free to caress an unmarked platinum ring. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you've made it this far, thank you so much, you're awesome. <3 
> 
> 1\. I wanted to write a fic that, while optimistic, did not sugarcoat the realities of maintaining a same-sex relationship in top-flight football (esp a long-distance one). Hopefully I managed this, somewhat.  
> 2\. I used a lot of references (news articles, photos, videos, etc) to make the fic sound as realistic as possible despite being fiction - feel free to ask more if you're curious!  
> 3\. I admit - I wrote this to help me come to terms with a) Bayern buying Mario, and b) Marco getting injured right before the World Cup. 
> 
> feel free to email (refractingprisms at gmail) - or message me on tumblr (maximumfeels) or livejournal (opticalprism) to talk about anything, to prompt me or to just flail in general! (tumblr is sadly somewhat empty right now because I just started it)


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